WARNING! Low level violence referenced in this post.
It’s like this: when Dr B and I met, a very long time ago, he used to ride a motorbike. In those days, I was a nurse and I’d seen plenty of people sporting fractures and lacerations from coming off one of those things. I refused to get on it. I haven’t changed my mind. Dr B says if I loved him, I’d ride pillion. I say if he loved me, he’d stop asking.
This is also true: I do not like plums. That was the case long, long before Dr B came into my life and no amount of persuasion on his part has changed my opinion. When they’re in season, he keeps asking me if I’d like a plum. He says he does it because he loves me and would feel rude not offering. I say if he loved me, he’d stop asking.
Mostly I just ignore his barbs. But one day – oh, yes, one day – I am going to snap. I’ll turn around and give him a punch like the one that Walt Disney’s Hercules landed on Hades at a critical point in the narrative; and Dr B’s face will turn into a prune – which, as it happens, is about the only sort of plum I will eat.